


harlot queen

by ashforge



Category: Fate/Apocrypha, Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: A sentence of hetsex, Angst, F/F, Guinevere in love with Artoria, Guinevere-centric, Implied Incest, Infidelity, Pseudo-Incest, Unrequited Love, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 02:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16483940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashforge/pseuds/ashforge
Summary: Shameful bitter thing.  Her love and lust were so honest in their pursuit.  [...]  But the wall of Artoria’s back had become stone.  They talked when they needed and nothing further.





	harlot queen

In the early part of her marriage with Artoria, they slept together in the same bed.  In slight night shifts, merely a hands breadth apart.  At night, Artoria would look at her with a quiet shade of relief, as if Guinevere was the softest shade of her life.  Without perversion or malice, like a true knight would.  She would entwine her rough, sword calloused hand into hers and they would sleep like that.  Without lust or want.

At the beginning, that was enough for Guinevere.  She had been born and raised a princess, to be made a queen.  To be put into a special position that only God and the fairies knew.  At the beginning, she had no wants for intimacy greater than the warmth of her husband’s palm.  No greater than the rare times where Artoria would draw Guinevere’s body against hers in restless sleep, only to relax against her body.  It was the greatest pleasure she could hope for.

But that was something that could not last forever.  Even if Artoria would stay the same, Guinevere would not.  Aging was a trivial thing, as her bloodline was hand picked for its vitality, but her mind could not stay fifteen.  She thought her husband would be the same way.  As she lingered in the bed, in sheer shifts, she awaited her king every night.  Pulling the hem up higher, or rolling onto her stomach to invite.

Artoria was handsome, after all.  Saying “even for a woman” would not do it justice.  She had feminine slightness with rock hard musculature.  She had golden hair and piercing green eyes.  The kind of regality only a king could have.  Not any king either.  No, the charisma and fire in every action and stare could only belong to the Once and Future King.  Guinevere’s love had not waned in anyway, but developed.  She loved her husband a way a woman would.

What she had expected was for Artoria’s eyes, which had once viewed her as a gem, to covet her in their marriage.  But that was a fate not meant to be.  The light which had made a beautiful naive Artoria years prior had long lost.  That fire, that regal air, that was all that remained.  As she enticed her king towards her, Artoria blinked tiredly and looked away.

“I can see your intimate places,” Artoria said coolly, almost disinterested.  Like she had to warn Guinevere of exposure.  “You should wear something thicker in winter.”

Dressed down to her night clothes, without any interest, Artoria slid against the edge of the bed.  Her back like a wall in Guinevere’s face.  Rejecting her, refusing her.  It took some time to recover, she’d say.  But she never did.  The more she stared at Artoria’s back in their bed.  The longer her hands laid off the edge, cold and lonely.  The more it became unbearable.

Artoria didn’t question or argue when Guinevere said she would sleep in her own quarters.  She blinked, tilted her head and acknowledged it as fact.  Like she had been bound by accepting Guinevere at face value.  Her stomach churned the whole night, miserable and hopeful.  That the next morning Artoria would enter her door and beg for her return.  That she would forgive the coldness and the distance so long as Artoria wanted her back.

No such request had ever been made.  Not the next morning, nor the winter.  Not when their wedding anniversary arrived.  Not even when Merlin had spoken to her about producing an heir.  Artoria did not even bother doing that much herself, too preoccupied with the job of a king.  To think that she had craved that intimacy, even if Artoria would be forced to it.

But Artoria did not come to her door.  Did not romance her in the night.  Did not fuck her like a breeding sow, for little more than political gain.  Merlin said the spell must have failed, and Artoria kept tight lipped on the subject.  To think she was downcast, miserable, downtrodden over the frozen wall that was Artoria’s back.  She could vomit at her own self loathing.  At her own feelings and heart.  She could die with shame, knowing that at night, she touched herself with the memory of Artoria’s palms.

Shameful bitter thing.  Her love and lust were so honest in their pursuit.  That she had run away from her husband only to masturbate to her memory.  But the wall of Artoria’s back had become stone.  They talked when they needed and nothing further.

And he was an unfortunate man.  She wanted to love him, for no one had loved her so fully.  He was a man from another nation, tall and blessed by the fairies.  Masculine, so masculine.  Everything that Artoria was not.  Dark haired, dark eyed, and broad.  Pining, as he would sit at her window and plea.  So silently that she could barely hear his voice.  On a single knee he proclaimed his love for her.

She loved Lancelot in her own way.  In the way that someone falls in love with kindness.  It is nice, and warm.  It’s distracting.  His massive hands made hers look like a child’s, and she could only think about how Artoria’s was the same size as hers.  He leaned against her, so passionately yet restrained.  Like he was in pain.  Yes, Guinevere knew.  She was in pain too.  She loved him in her own way.  Touching his neck and cheek, trying to find stars in fallen ink.

The first time she bedded him, he treated her like a queen.  Touching his lips to her ankles and calves, along her belly and lips.  He handled her like she was made of glass, so delicate that she might break if he pressed too hard.  Yes, she loved that about him.  Because that noble sense of chivalry was familiar.  As his face tightened, his cock spreading her apart, she wondered if Artoria would’ve made that face if she had come to her room that night.  She wondered if Artoria would’ve groaned and sighed, murmuring words of love and adoration.

Before she knew it, she was breathing hotly, arms about his neck.  All she could think about was her beautiful husband, even when this man loved her so much.  Even when he was willing to give up the world for her, everything that he was and would be.  That his love for the king only came second.

Guinevere wished she could say the same thing.  She truly did.  That was why she made her peace.  That if her heart would never agree, she would have to choose beyond it.  That she had to abandon that piece to live a happy life.  That’s what she thought.

She chose him.  That’s what she would say.  Because no honest part of her body could argue against that.  Only the foolish, mislead heart would fight it.  As news of their infidelity spread, Lancelot laid with her a final time.  Yet for the life of her, she could remember nothing about it except the cold reality that she was facing.  Either her husband would die, or the man who loved her.  No part of her would survive.

Guinevere sequestered herself in the castle, patiently waiting for Lancelot’s return or her pyre.  There would be no fate beyond death at the flames once her husband returned, but part of her craved it.  For her husband to finally pay attention to her alone.

What she had not expected was a coup.  It happened so suddenly and with such little violence that it was over by the time she had processed it happening.  The Silver Knight cleaved through and sat upon her husbands throne, covered head to toe in armor.  Guinevere opened her mouth to argue, but the hands of Mordred’s soldiers tightened on her shoulder.

“Let go of her. What are you - savages?” Mordred’s voice came from the helmet in a metallic hum and Guinevere was let go as if she were made of fire.  The horned helm tilted from one side to the other.  “Your lover isn’t going to survive the encounter with Arthur and his army.”

A knot formed in Guinevere’s throat.  Even as she craved for Artoria’s attention, hearing such nonchalance about Lancelot’s impending death made her uneasy.  “You mean the king,” she answered hotly, trying to control the wicked balance in her chest.

The helmet tilted to the other side.  “Have you eyes?  I am the king.” The knight leaned forward, elbows upon knees. “I am the king of this land of true birthright and virtue.  I am the only son of Arthur, after all, and the people call for me.”

Anger bubbled forth.  She knew enough about the knights to know each one and their birthright.  She knew that Mordred was the son of Artoria’s half sister, Morgan.  She wanted to argue but for some reason it fell short.  Mordred was nearly as old as her marriage was long.  Guinevere swallowed, an assortment of thoughts flooding into her head.  Perhaps, she feared, Artoria never once touched her in devotion to her half sister.  Perhaps Artoria’s kindness had only been a lie, lusting after her own blood with a wife right there.

Her focus snapped ahead as she felt Mordred’s armored fingers on her chin.  Their heights were not so different, but she had to look down at the front of Mordred’s helmet.  The same height - no, she didn’t let herself get weak.  “Ha - are you mad?  Then you’re not dead,” there was a patronizing tone to the knight’s voice.  “Tell you what, I’ll spare you from the justice you have coming.  A king needs a queen, after all.”

Her heart nearly stopped.  Wrenching free from Mordred’s touch, she bit back expletives.  “ _ _Excuse me.__ ” She hissed instead, wiping her chin as if the knight had stained her face.  Her reply was a roaring laughter.

“That’s right, be angry with me.” Mordred urged, “father never got to see that, did he?  No, you did your part as a good queen.  Or tried to anyway.  What’s one more king, Guinevere?”

When she didn’t answer, Mordred taunted her further.  “Are you afraid to see how a real king treats his queen?”

She had never been in the presence of someone who so expertly made her hackles rise.  In just a single question, the rebel knight had turned Guinevere from resistant to rebellious herself.  It was unspoken that Artoria did not satisfy her needs.  After all, she had turned to another man for comfort.  But to say it so brazenly?  To imply that the son of that same woman would be any better.

“Think you’re better than the king, or Sir Lancelot?” Guinevere hadn’t any scope of what she was saying, only hurling words at the knight in silver as she could.  The love and lust of Artoria boiled her blood.  The yearning to love Lancelot fogged her brain.  As she reared herself to speak more, her words cut short as Mordred’s hand sank against the small of her back and in one powerful tug, pulled Guinevere flush against armor.

Her breath caught in her throat, staring down at the helmet that could not make a single expression.  Yet she could see a grin where there was no mouth.  “I shall savor that face, harlot queen,” said the knight, voice so husky and raw that Guinevere shuddered.  “You would never give father or your man that expression.”

Guinevere wondered what Mordred wanted of her.  She stared at the bedroom that she once shared with Artoria with a cold numbness.  Guinevere hadn’t the strength to even enter the room since she left, and for good reason.  Her stomach turned, seeing her side of the bed meticulously cared for.  Pillows fluffed, sheets straightened.  The bedside table was dusted, and her belongings carefully set as she left them without an ounce of abuse from disuse.  Like Artoria had painstakingly requested that they were cared for, set in such a way that it would be perfect if Guinevere had ever returned.

They were both too proud.  Guinevere wished for Artoria to want her, and Artoria waited for her to chase her.  Such tiny details could not be made if Artoria had not been looking.  Her fingers brushed over the silvered hand brush on her nightstand, a wedding gift that she abandoned.  There was not even a speck of dust on it, not even settled grease.  Behind her, she heard the sound of buckles and metal.  A sound she was familiar with, as Artoria and Lancelot wore armor more than anything else.  Mordred, however, undressed with carelessness.  Each piece of armor falling to the ground without delicacy or care.

She ran her fingers along the hand mirror’s hilt with a grimace.  She had never seen any man but Lancelot in a state of undress.  Artoria never went below her small clothes, even.  What degree of nakedness would Mordred be in if she turned?  She had prepared for the worst, the rebel knight forcing himself upon her, but now a trickle of fear slid down her spine.

“Look at me,” said the knight and Guinevere’s breath hitched.  That was not a man’s voice.  How could she listen to it from the helmet and never hear that?  Even still she squeezed her eyes shut and refused.  With soft steps, she could hear and feel Mordred approach her, and once again her chin was caught between the knight’s fingers.  “What are you afraid of?”

Hesitantly, Guinevere opened her eyes.  Light flooded her vision first, then settled, and she looked at the woman before her.  The strength left her legs and she fell onto the edge of the bed.  Anything she could have expected would not be what she saw.  The knight beneath the armor was nearly an exact replica of Artoria.  The same skin, and face shape.  The same fine blonde hair and piercing green eyes.  Yet, there was something off, wild, angular.

Wearing a rough spun shirt over light undershorts, Mordred flashed a self satisfied grin.  “Surprised?  Of course,” Mordred spread her arms out with almost a theatrical embellish.  “Staring back at my father’s face, I wonder if you feel ashamed.”  With slow, deliberate movements, she leaned over Guinevere’s body.

A shudder surged through her.  Not just the face, but Mordred smelled like Artoria.  Like metal and blood.  Her body exuded a fierce body heat too, racing through Guinevere just from closeness.  She grit her teeth, staring at eyes that were far too familiar but so different.  Artoria never looked at her like that.  Never with such a base desire.  “I made my choices,” she argued, leaning her head backwards so as to keep Mordred away from her.  “You aren’t among my choices.”

To her surprise, Mordred stopped abruptly.  She didn’t move away from her, at first, but she stopped her leaning.  Guinevere glanced at her.  Mordred’s lip raised slightly, as if filled with annoyance, but her expression was cloudy.  With indignance, Guinevere shoved the woman off of her.  At least Mordred had the barest dignity of a human being and stopped short of raping her.

Mordred looked away, red faced, and focused on the portrait on the wall opposite of the bed.  Guinevere looked at it too, and her emotions felt like a weight on her chest.  It was commissioned soon after their wedding, and somehow Artoria found time to pose alongside Guinevere for it.  She remembered how Artoria rested her palm upon hers for hours on end and kept such a stern but serene expression.  Her heart strained because the longer she remained in that room, the more she questioned herself.

“You did not look so happy, even as you broke fidelity for your own happiness,” Mordred said, coolly.  “I know how my father is.  You could not be happy with her.”

The words sank down into her like ice, and Guinevere had to wonder how Mordred could know such an intimate thing.  No, rather, she did not bother.  For all this time in having a child, Artoria did not even think to mention it or acknowledge it.  Even if she had no clue, Artoria would never accept an heir who was short of perfect.  Guinevere knew her husband far too well.

“He loves me,” Guinevere argued, softly.  She had no reason to divulge something so personal, and should not.  Yet, she felt like Mordred had no intention to touch her without explicit permission.  She could laugh.  Of course, she was a knight after all.  “He loves me so much and so completely.  I should love him back.”

Mordred looked back at her and tilted her head.  “Is that all it takes?”  She asked with a edge to it that was almost insulting.  “That he loves you?  Suppose I said I loved you in that capacity.” She said such bold words but didn’t move an inch.  She stared holes into Guinevere’s eyes.  “With this face and this body, would you relinquish your dignity to me?”

Guinevere laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.  Lying perpendicular to the bed, she rattled off the last of her incredulous laughter.  Of all the things in the world, she had come to this.  Of all the fantasizing about her husband, of every time she laid with Lancelot while thinking of Artoria’s small rough hands.  Her fingers plucked each hook of her dress open and she lied on the bed motionless.  If nothing else, she could stare at her husband’s face this time. “Love me?  You think you love me?” She replied, voice strained.  “Do you know me?  What do you know of me other than being your father’s wife?”

Slowly, she spread her legs apart, but did not bother to look at Mordred.  A voiceless invitation.  Guinevere had expected a stone wall, or a delicate knight.  The lovers she had before cared for her like glass.  Mordred’s hands started at the hem of her skirt and tore her dress in half like it were made of wet parchment.  “Father’s queen who suffered,” Mordred growled, her fingers rough against Guinevere’s body as she traced upwards.  “Suffered the indignity of being a tool beside her.  The coldness and disgust.  The queen that chose to live for herself.” Her fingers spread and cupped both of Guinevere’s breasts.  “Became a harlot to be disgusted for her own happiness.”

Mordred’s fingers were so small and rough that Guinevere hadn’t even needed to try to imagine them as Artoria’s.  Just the thought alone shot shivers down her spine, squeezing her breasts like a savage.  Without thinking gave a vocal breath, eyes rolling backwards.  Not even Lancelot would touch her so roughly.  No, he treated her like a queen.  She cleared her vision and looked down at Mordred, sharp teeth sinking against her hard peaks, earning hard pangs of arousal between her legs.  With Artoria’s face, it was so easy to live out her fantasies.  Guinevere’s lips curled upwards, and she sank her fingers into Mordred’s beautiful blonde hair.

“That your body is so tight and fine, begging to be touched,” Mordred purred, licking at the curves of Guinevere’s breasts as she drew her hips to the junction of the queen’s legs.  With a sturdy buck, her clothed hips ground against Guinevere’s mound without any reserve.  The queen blinked and gasped.  Just like that, she was transfixed.  Just like the times she had furiously touched herself, imagining Artoria taking her forcefully in jealousy of Lancelot.  “Your men fear to touch you, but I will not.”

Guinevere moaned, pressing down Mordred’s head into her skin as the knight bit shameless marks into her.  Sucking and breaking her skin until she were bruised.  Oh how she had longed for that ownership, that savagery that made her belong to her husband.  She could feel her lips nearly drip with arousal as Mordred’s hips bucked against her as she focused her eyes on the knight’s face.  Just like Artoria’s - she lusted. She did not even need to search, seeing what her husband would look like in raw lust of her.

And her hands, oh Mordred had Artoria’s hands.  Small and rough, sliding down her torso with dominance.  Even before she had a want for sex, she dreamed of such a touch from her Artoria.  She dreamed of having her king cup her mound with purpose, desire, want.  She nearly squealed, twisting as that hand spread her lips open like she were a common whore, and savored the scent of her sex wafting to her nose.

“Do you hear how wet you are, my queen?” Mordred’s voice was hot and husky, and just similar enough to Artoria that Guinevere’s womb tightened nearly to the point of pain in excitement.  Such indecent things coming out of her husband’s lips.  Her breath shuddered, and she dragged her nails along Mordred’s muscular arms in anticipation.  “Ha - what?  For someone so resistant before you’re desperate.”

Never once had Guinevere had her womanhood touched or claimed by Artoria.  Never once had Artoria even considered it.  But Mordred smeared her juices around with confidence, touching her devil’s tit without any shame, making Guinevere melt into a mess.  But that was not enough, that was something she could merely fantasize about.  Her fingers found her thighs and scratched, too ashamed to speak the words.

But Mordred would not let her do that, teasing her slit with those rough fingers until Guinevere could not stand it any further.  She would never have thought to speak such words, but as her mind grew hazy, she just could see Artoria looking at her womanhood with intent.  “Inside me, I need you inside.” She blabbered, begging a ghost of her husband to take her in the way she had always wanted.

She watched as Artoria’s hand shifted and slowly sank into her folds as the first knuckle entered her.  Guinevere gasped, moaned, and as Artoria filled her further, made expletives she had only heard men speak.  Oh, how she had dreamed for this moment for so long.  Her husband not just laying with her but fucking her like a common tavern wench.  Artoria’s fingers inside of her body, to the knuckles.  Wriggling in her, finding every spot that made her vision white with pleasure.  She wanted her king in her deep, and hard.  Possessive and wanting, fiercely jealous of Lancelot to the point of breaking her pussy in the process.

“Did he fuck you this good?” Mordred asked leaning against Guinevere with each thrust nearly causing her body to shatter.  The queen hadn’t even the mentality to reply, too concerned with seeing a vengeful husband in Mordred’s skin.  “If only I had a cock, then I’d have my hands free to pin you down while I fucked you.  See your expression as I filled you with my seed.”

Just the thought of Artoria saying that while driving her fingers into Guinevere made her body seize.  She heard Mordred grunt as her walls closed on her fingers, and her mind grew hazier.  Ah, she wanted Artoria’s hands and cock in her so badly.  She wanted Artoria’s rough hands around her neck as she bred her like a horse, like Merlin had promised so long ago.  As she stared at Mordred’s smoldering gaze, she could only see what she wished Artoria would do.

It wasn’t fair, but Guinevere had given up being fair.  She draped her arms around Mordred’s neck and dug her nails into the knight’s muscular back.  “I’m - I’m.” She wheezed, moaning, and somehow the pace increased to accommodate.  Mordred fully intended to fuck her until she broke.  She buried her nose against Mordred’s hair and breathed.  The scent of fire, blood and metal.  It really wasn’t fair.

She felt her fluids gush against Mordred’s hand as she came, and every ounce of energy had burned from her system.  The room smelled of sex for the first and last time.  Blearily, she watched Artoria lick her fingers of Guinevere’s come only to remember that it was Mordred standing there.

“I just wanted her to love me the way I loved her,” Guinevere said, after catching her breath.  Mordred covered her in the top quilt of the bed.  “Was that so much to ask of a husband?”

The weight of the bed shifted as Mordred lied beside her, drawing her body close like Artoria used to man years ago. Their bodies were the same, and Guinevere’s eyes hurt at how much she had missed it.

“I,” Mordred began and stopped.  As if she had to fight back what she was going to say.  “You need to leave Camelot.  Whatever fate there is beyond this night, you don’t deserve it.”

Guinevere paused.  “But I had committed the crime.  Not just with Lancelot, but again with you.” She said quietly.  “Besides, where will a harlot go?”

The grip on her tightened and Mordred’s breathing stopped for a moment before releasing.  “Father broke the marriage long before you ever did.  What happened tonight never happened,” she seemed to be on edge, frustrated.  “Go to a monastery, become a woman of God.  Be away from this place for good.”

The thought wasn’t terrible, but she thought of Mordred’s words.  If she truly loved Guinevere, why would she shove her away?  She wanted to fight and argue, that the action was too much like Artoria, but she knew deep down - she craved that.  “What if you’re victorious over Artoria?”

Mordred’s pause was the longest, and she wondered what kind of face the knight made.  “Mordred was never meant to be king.” She said so quietly that Guinevere could barely hear.

**Author's Note:**

> i was in a really big slump after camlann, and i'm still fighting it a bit. this was very self indulgent. [tumblr](http://ashforge.tumblr.com/). [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/E1E179AH).


End file.
